Or maybe it didn't matter if she was ready. Maybe the world was going to test her anyway, and this was her chance to choose the battlefield. She tucked the letter back into her bag, laid down on the bench she'd been sleeping on for the past month, and closed her eyes. Tomorrow, she decided she'd find out what kind of weapon music could really be.
Amara sat on the cold floor of the contestant lounge, back against the wall, as far from the buffet table as she could get, without leaving the room entirely. Her backpack rested between her knees. She could feel the letter inside had been feeling it for the past hour, like it was burning through the fabric. Around her, the other contestants laughed and talked and ate. Madison Blake sat on the leather couch, scrolling through her phone, occasionally showing something to her father and giggling.
The boy with the acoustic guitar was practicing scales quietly in the corner. A makeup artist touched up a girl's lipstick. Both of them chatting about some restaurant in Manhattan that Amara had never heard of. Nobody looked at her. She might as well have been furniture.
She unzipped the backpack slowly, carefully, keeping it low. Her fingers found the envelope by touch. She'd held it so many times over the past 3 years that she knew every crease, every soft spot where the paper had worn thin. She pulled it out. The envelope was yellowed now, not white anymore.
The seal had loosened from being carried around in heat and cold and everything in between. Her grandmother's handwriting on the front to Amara when you're ready had faded but was still legible. Was she ready? She had no idea. But sitting here watching rich kids eat food she wasn't allowed to touch.
Wearing clothes that cost more than she'd made in 6 months felt like exactly the kind of corner her grandmother had warned her about. When life corners you baby, you don't beg. You fight smart. Amara broke the seal. The letter was written on both sides of two pages, dense with her grandmother's careful script.
Amara had to blink a few times to focus. Her eyes were dry tired from not sleeping well last night on a subway bench. She started reading. My dearest Amara, if you're reading this, I'm gone. And I'm so, so sorry.
Not for dying. We all do that eventually, and I've had a good run. But for leaving you alone, I know how hard that will be. I know you'll be scared. But I need you to know something.
You're not as alone as you think you are. I never told you much about my time at Juilliard. There were reasons for that. Partly because it was complicated. Being one of maybe five Black women in that entire program wasn't easy.
And I didn't want you to think that suffering was a requirement for success. But also because I didn't want you thinking that pedigree matters more than practice. But there's something you need to know now. Something I should have told you years ago. When I was at Juilliard, I was assigned to mentor a first-year student.